The next zoonotic virus might be the last

They are everywhere
So much despair
Live markets victims dying
Nothingness and nullify
Obliteration crying
Cages cages everywhere
Full of dying souls
Sick and injured
Cancelled out
Unbegotten trolls

Working in these spaces
In residential land
In New York stench and wilfulness
The dead as a dodo band
Of people earning money
Where death walks hand in hand
Bleary eyes rank chickens
Who can understand

A park a children’s playground
And just across the street
A wet market piled high
With death
Breaks and heads
All lie
Stream of blood from under doors
Wash into the street
This is free America
Where everything is sweet

Warriors mostly women
With placards do their thing
Up against aggression
Expletives and they fling
All sorts of threat from hell itself
To those dear women who
Give their time to make men see
And ask what do they do

Behind closed doors
The stench of death
It wafts just everywhere
No water troughs
Just chickens drying our
No one to care
These will end up in a curry
In a pie or flan
Dragged up thorough a novel
By a greaseball of a man

We often point our fingers at China
And the Far East
But actually America
Perhaps you thought of least
A whole quagmire of forces
Inequality
feeble weak and underweight
Irregularity

Chaotic and shambolic
Sluttiish slovenly
A ragbag of bedlam
Flies everywhere to see
And actually loads of maggots
Wriggling on their way
Over smelly carcasses
The disease of the day

A breeding ground for sickness
Pails of water slipped
And swept across the sidewalk
By worked far from ripped
Black sacks torn and weeping
Illegality
A montage of hellish organs
Bad ass villainy
Threatening with violence
The women take it well
They really are extraordinary
Laying down their spell

The environment a shambles
Exudation everywhere
Mucus snot and afterbirth
And not a soul does care
Outside of the protestors
Life goes on each day
Women push pushchairs
And kids together play

New York’s poorer districts
A cesspool of desire
Feathered angels come and go
Plucked and in the fire
Perishable expiring
Bloodshed butchery
It’s suffocating it’s stifling
Animality

Clearly there is unconsciousness
Among the porters who
Are Handling the boxes
Of processed chickens few
Alive the rest all dressed and ready
To visit the Tandoor
So much heartache so much anguish
It’s like a local war

Putrefaction hanging
Ammonia bad eggs
Suffocating fetidness
Lots of broken legs
Many wrong impressions
Sloppy thinking here
Too much emotional baggage
That much is very clear
Unwisdom and unenlightenment
And an excess of fear